


It Must Be Right

by CelticGHardy



Category: The Following
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticGHardy/pseuds/CelticGHardy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe has to make sure the book is complete. A character alive he planned as killed is something that cannot happen. He will kill Mike Weston; he will kill Claire and then Ryan will become the hero he needs for the book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Must Be Right

**Author's Note:**

> AU of 1x15. Obviously. Three parts on Tumblr. [First post](http://veryrealimagination.tumblr.com/post/49522898786/it-must-be-right) and the rest link together.

The phone started ringing. Joe doesn't think Emma will be calling for conformation on Ryan's arrival so soon. He should just be finding Agent Parker's body. Who could possibly be calling him at this moment? 

Claire stared at him while he answered, “Yes?” She only caught his part of the conversation, but figured what was being told to him wasn't good. “What do you mean? How did he miss?” he questioned, rage filling his voice as he started to pace. “He wasn't supposed to miss! This throws everything off.” His voice was growing in volume. She wondered who Joe was talking about. “No, no, Ryan must witness his death and be unable to do anything.” He started messing his hair. “Is it possible to bring him here?” he inquired, voice lowering and rage slowly filtering out. She watched him trying to conjure up a plan. “Tell me exactly what is happening.” A few minutes went by. “Ryan's left him? Then grab him now and bring him to me.”

He hung up and turned back to Claire. “I am sorry about that,” he apologized, “It looks like Ryan, you and I will not be the only ones for the finale tonight. I honestly should not be surprised; some people apparently are very hard to kill unless you do it yourself.” He set the phone down. Joe grabbed her and forced her back into the other room before locking her in.

-

Mike couldn't believe Ryan left him there. He was being suicidal! Joe would kill Claire and probably kill him before escaping to commit more murders. He went for his phone and started calling Turner to update him on what was going on. Maybe they could figure out where Ryan was heading and they could come up with a better plan.

“Turner,” the man answered.

“Parker's dead. Ryan ran off; Joe left him a copy of his book and it gave him directions to go someplace so he could confront him,” he reported. A car was coming up fast on the dirt road. “Did you already send someone?”

“No, we haven't,” he said.

Two people jumped out when the car came to a halt. Mike dropped his phone and dodged the first person that tried to tackle him, but the other person caught him, wrapping their arms around him and trapping him. He kicked at the person that missed, but they just grabbed his legs. “Turner! Two males, Caucasian,” he yelled, struggling against their grip as they walked him over to the trunk, “The car's a navy blue, four door...” He was cut off when he landed among tools and assorted junk. He groaned from the impact and tried stopping them from closing the hood by placing his leg in the way. It slammed down on it, and he shouted, but he didn't move. The second guy pushed him in and the hood was shut.

In pain from his leg and everything jamming into his back, his instincts only kicked in when he realized they were driving extremely fast. He started searching for a release that would be in the center of the hood. The indent where it should have been was empty. He tried remembering what he read about in training. Panic started filling his head, and he wasn't able to clear it. _Is this what Parker.... No, no, stop! What am I supposed to do? I'm in a trunk, not buried. What can I do? There's no release, and if there isn't a way of opening the trunk... Tail light!_

Mike then started working on the area where the tail light was. He ripped back the fabric and pushed aside the wires and metal blocks to get to the plastic. He slid his arm up a bit to cover his fist and hit it to break it out. He had to block the hole after that, because gravel and stones were starting to fly in.

It was a few minutes before the car slowed a small bit and turned onto an asphalt road. He removed his arm and looked outside to see if there were any cars he could signal. The entire road was barren; it didn't seem to be a main road. He fell back and used the small bit of light to search the trunk. A crowbar, a jack and other car items were the things he felt. Only the crowbar could be used, but it was a short ranged weapon. He checked to make sure he still had his gun, and he did. That was about the only reliable weapon he had at the moment.

-

Claire didn't hear much for a while; she focused on working to remove the planks again. She wrecked her hands more than anything when she heard Joe's phone ring again. She stopped and walked over to see if she could hear the conversation that was happening. She couldn't, but she did hear someone knocking on the outside of the house. She would have screamed, yelled for help, but the tone of the conversation led her to believe the person was another of Joe's helpers.

She moved back when they came closer. The door opened. She focused on Joe then saw the two people by him. She caught a flash of yellow lettering on one of them before the person was thrown in. She watched the young man stumble before turning to face them. _FBI? One of the agents working with Ryan?_ A gun was pointed at him, which stopped any thought of fighting back, by the second person before the door was closed and locked again. 

She stopped him before he started trying to break the door down. “Someone else already tried,” she informed, “Joe just got annoyed at him.”

He turned to look at her. She tried to remember where she had seen him until she realized he was one of the agents in her home right after she was attacked. He had looked young then, angry as well; now there was a slight weariness to him and sadness. She noticed the healing cut and wondered who gave it to him . “Claire Matthews,” he stated, more to himself than her. Then he began looking around the room.

“The windows are boarded well. There's nothing that can really be used as a weapon,” she listed as she watched him, “Do you have anything?”

He shook his head, “They took my gun, my knife, my handcuffs. I dropped my phone when they grabbed me.” He still went over to the windows to attempt to remove a few of the boards before admitting defeat and sitting with his back against the wall.

She carefully walked over to him. He looked up at her before settling back to stare at the corner of the desk he decided on. “I don't remember your name,” she mentioned, regretting the lame attempt at conversation.

“Mike Weston,” he murmured.

She knew stopping would be a good idea, but she didn't like hearing nothing. “I know this isn't my fault, but I am sorry about everything that's happened,” she told him.

His smile was small. “You're right; this isn't your fault,” he affirmed, “Your husband would have done this anyway if you hadn't been there.” He didn't want to talk anymore and tried to project that to her. Claire picked up on it and sat a few feet away. 

She wondered about Joey, and who was going to take care of him. She thought about the stories he would hear and questioned himself. Who would tell him the truth about Emma, Jacob? Who would give him lies? Did Joe have someone waiting to give him answers?

A noise confused her. She heard it again and looked over at the agent. One more noise and a swipe at his face worried her. _Is he crying?_ She listened closely, but didn't really hear anything. She had to watch him and in the little bit of fading light, she thought she saw tears. He was hurting, because of something that Joe did. She wasn't sure if her action would be appreciated, but she couldn't ignore her instincts. She walked back over and sat next to him. Letting her hand hover for a second, she placed it on his back and rubbed circles.

He started, looking at her. Mike was surprised that the woman was being kind to him. It wasn't like she knew him very well. She stopped. “Sorry,” he muttered, wiping the tears off, “You shouldn't be dealing with this.”

“It's fine,” she assured, seeing him forcibly stop. It broke her heart a little to watch him have to do that. He wasn't being given time to process what had happened.

The two of them looked up when the door opened. Joe held a gun that Mike recognized as his own. He stood up and placed himself between them. “How noble, Agent Weston,” he mocked, before throwing something at him. It was his handcuffs. “In the front. Don't think about keeping them loose enough for you to slip out of.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the gun wavering over to Claire before he cuffed his left arm and made sure he couldn't get out before doing his right. Joe stepped in and grabbed him before forcing him ahead and shutting the door. He made him walk into the living room, where a chair had been added to the other side of the fireplace. The sofa directly in front of the fire held Ryan, unconscious.

“Ry-” he shouted, before Joe covered his mouth and pushed the gun in just below his ear.

“Don't do that again, you little brat,” he hissed, shoving him on the floor. He pulled out a rag and dragged him over to the chair before getting it between his lips and tying. He grabbed rope that must have been dug out to tie him to the chair. “Don't move.”

Mike watched Ryan, hoping he would wake up soon. Instead, Joe came back dragging Claire along, her own hands tied in front of her. He pushed her into the other chair, and then stood by the fireplace, between the both of them. “Ryan?” she whispered, then looked over to Mike. She was afraid. He tried keeping his fear down, but he probably wasn't doing that great. The three of them looked over to the man, waiting for him to wake up.

The drug that they injected into Ryan was just starting to clear. The world was still blurry when he opened his eyes and started looking around at where he was. The first thing that came into clear view was Claire. She was frightened. He knew Joe was around somewhere, and he saw him blocking the light from the fireplace.

Joe was getting impatient. He was awake, but he wasn't moving and he hadn't spotted the last person. “Now, now, come on, Ryan,” he urged, moving to stand behind Mike. The gun rested on his shoulder, barrel moving up and down. “You're taking much too long.” 

Ryan realized Joe had disappeared from his sight, and moved around to find him again. He saw Mike tied up, with the gun near his head. _No. No. Mike was safe! Damn it!_ “What are you doing, Joe?” he questioned.

“Finishing what was started before we get onto the main event,” he insisted. He gripped Mike's head to keep it in place before placing the gun against his temple. “He has to die and you cannot do anything about it.” Mike kept his eyes on Ryan, trying to keep his fear down. He wasn't going to give Ryan something that haunted his memories, not like Parker. Joe's finger tightened.

“It's wrong, Joe.” 

_Ryan is getting very frustrating._ Joe was beginning to get angry. “How is it wrong, Ryan?” he demanded, “He dies and you can't stop me.”

“But it's not what happened in your book,” he pushed, “You had it set up by a sniper. You wanted it so I would not have any chance to stop his death. Probably had it set up so Mike would die in my arms or something, right?” Joe's grip on his head turned painful and Mike winced. Ryan grew a little pale, but continued, “I can still stop you, rush at you. Your first thought would be shoot at me.” He started moving off the sofa.

The gun turned on him. “Don't move, Ryan,” he ordered.

“Or what?” he challenged, “You won't shoot me. Not yet. It's not the way you're planning it.” He stood up. “You want me to suffer first.” Joe lowered the weapon and discharged it twice at his feet. 

Ryan didn't move closer. Joe brought the gun back up to Mike's head, the barrel radiating heat onto his skin. “Sit back down, Ryan,” he commanded. When the man didn't immediately do what he wanted, he pressed the gun into his temple. The metal was still warm enough to produce a flinch from him. The man collapsed back on the sofa. _So's he not entirely able to fight. Good, good, that's good._

Ryan, unfortunately, was right. The last chapter hadn't gone to plan. He would have to rewrite. Perhaps the young man being alive a little long would work better. The reactions he garnered out of the man were interesting. He slid the gun in an inner pocket after replacing the safety and took out the knife he had used to kill Neil. “Joe, what are you doing?” Claire asked as he wiped off dried blood using Mike's jacket, earning stares.

He wasn't worried about her at the moment. Well, he was, but not for now. She wouldn't try anything. “What was your first meeting with Agent Weston?” he inquired, hovering the knife near the scar at the top of his head.

He traced when Ryan didn't immediately start, reopening the cut. “Mike was filling people in on your previous victims,” he dictated, “I walked up to the back of the group. He spotted me, then he gave the group the profile. He got your motivation behind it wrong.”

He looked down at his current victim, proclaiming, “You got my motivation wrong?” The knife started moving to his neck.

“He did it purposely!” he defended; Joe stopped the knife and turned back to him, “There was comments, protests. Several higher-ups didn't want me on the case. A drunk former agent wouldn't be great for media attention. I corrected him; it convinced the agents at the time to keep me around.”

Joe stared back down at Mike. “Clever boy,” he complemented, “So, he became your little sidekick, your little protege. Like Roderick was for me. What cemented it?”

Ryan looked over at Claire, warring over what he should say. He pulled at Mike's hair to stretch out his neck. The knife returned over his neck as a warning. “He didn't tell your cult buddies where Claire was,” he informed.

Claire looked over to Mike, whose head was allowed drop down to its more natural state. Joe glanced back at her. “Oh, of course. Agent Weston was the only one in the little group that knew where you had been taken. High profile security,” he mentioned, “Roderick and Charlie tried their best to get the information, but he was stubborn.” The knife suddenly switched positions and slammed into Mike's upper arm.

He screamed in pain. “Joe!” both Ryan and Claire yelled.

“Oh, so sorry,” he droned, untying the rag and pulling out the knife, “Every time I think about that, I think about Charlie giving himself up to me, for your stubbornness.” He managed to get the rag under the arm and tied it around the new wound, tightening it so there would be pressure and to get mangled gasps out of him.

“Mike?” Ryan feared.

He forced himself to look up at the man. “I'm fine,” he tried to reassure, before Joe pulled one last time at the rag and he groaned in response. Mike felt the blood still run down his arm, but he knew it wasn't fatal or dangerous at the moment. Then he saw the knife back in Joe's hand, covered in his blood. The man wiped it on his jacket, on top of the previous sample.

Then, he walked over to Claire. “Tell me, Ryan, when did you fall in love with her?” he asked, positioning himself by her side. One hand stroked her hair; the other played the knife near her eye.

“I don't know,” he uttered.

“Wasn't it when you first met her?” he protested, “On campus, correct? You questioned her about some of my victims?”

“She told me about you, because of the overtones that you created with Poe,” he added.

“Yes,” Joe said, “And you came to me for help on the case. You didn't suspect me then. What caused you to suspect me?”

“You were the perfect expert. Too perfect. You were allowing your pride to get into your speeches during the classes,” he recalled.

“No, no, you only came to a couple of my classes,” he dismissed. “You started following me for another reason. You figured out it was me. You figured it out because you kept visiting Claire. You had been falling in love with her for a while, hadn't you?”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Who made the first move? Was it you, right after I was arrested?” he pondered, just breaking the skin by her eye and watching a blood drop roll down, “Was it her, right after the divorce papers were served? After they were finalized and she was free of me?” He turned back to Ryan for the last question.

“Why do you want to know, Joe?” he questioned.

It was a dismissal, a detour. He figured it was one of the last two. “Because it will make this part very easy for me,” he said, “Which eye should I start with first?”

“No!” Mike shouted.

“No, no, Joe, it's too predictable,” he argued, “You gotta kill me instead. No one will ever see that coming.”

“She has to die, Ryan, to honor your 'death' curse. Both of them have to die,” he denied, then turned to Mike and pulled out the gun to point at him, “So, do be quiet. I could make your death quite painful.”

Ryan had enough. With Joe open, he ran right into him, hitting the fireplace. Both the gun and the knife dropped. Joe punched Ryan before scrambling for either of his weapons. The knife had landed near Claire, and she used her feet to take it away from him. Before he could reach the gun, Ryan knocked him again into the fireplace. Seeing the man go for the gun, Joe decided to try and escape, running out the door with gunshots ringing out after him.

Ryan first went over to Claire. He picked up the knife and cut through her bonds. She quickly grabbed it from him and cut his. “You okay?” he asked.

“Go after him,” she urged, “Kill him.” Ryan ran out after Joe. She moved over to Mike and sawed through the ropes. “Are the handcuffs yours?”

“Yeah, but I don't have the keys to them,” he confessed. They took a quick look around before figuring that Joe must have still had them on him. Both jumped when they heard gunshots, and ran out to see what was happening. More sounds led them to the boathouse before a loud bang erupted and they caught flames.

“Oh God, no,” Claire whispered, then ran ahead of Mike. Both got around as the fire grew. Mike was the first to see Ryan lying in the sand and grass.

“Ryan!” he shouted, dropping down and landing right beside him. Claire knelt down as well.

“I'm fine,” he insisted, sitting up. Claire helped Ryan up and then the two of them helped Mike. They watched the fire burn, waiting for an impossible figure to step out. When Joe didn't miraculously appear within a few minutes, they walked back to the lighthouse.

Ryan's first thought was to collapse on the sofa Joe had him on, but he remembered Mike's wound. Then he looked over and saw the handcuffs were still on him as well. “No keys?”

“No,” Mike muttered.

“What do you have left on you?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Ryan turned to Claire. “Where do you think Joe would have put his things?” he asked.

“I don't know. I was only in the room where he kept us locked up or here.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I'm going to search the house. Stay here,” he told them.

“Ryan,” Mike protested, and Claire looked like she was going to do the same.

“Mike, you can't do anything at the moment. Claire, all you have is the knife. The only person with a gun is me. Joe had this set up so none of his cult is up here,” he stopped, “You'll hear anything that happens. Just stay here.” He waited for the both of them to agree. He carefully checked the next room while Claire tried to see to the knife wound.

Ryan ignored everything that was covered in dust. Joe would have brought his own necessities up. The only other room he could find used was the kitchen. There was a bag that he quickly checked over. He didn't find Mike's stuff, but he did find Joe's. The satellite phone he started up while finding the first aid kit that he must have needed due to his injuries. While there wasn't a hidden skeleton key or a lock-picing kit to get the handcuffs off, he found a couple of thin, flat knives that he might try slipping in the mechanism. There was also a couple of paperclips that held a file together. He could try that.

Mike was slumped against the backing, eyes closed. Claire looked up at him and saw what he carried. “Couldn't find any of it,” he reported, grabbing the chair Mike had been tied to and dragging it close. She took the first aid kit and start rooting around. “Mike,” he called, shaking him awake. His wrist was grabbed, but Mike let go when he realized who it was.

Figuring it would be better to start with the safer options, he unwound one of the paperclip and jammed it in the keyhole. He tried remembering the stupid seminar about picking your own handcuffs when Mike took it away from him and twisted it so the latch inside was pushed and he could pull out his right hand. “Show off,” Ryan muttered as he had to lay his left arm over his right to get the other cuff off.

“Isn't the first time,” he mumbled, eyes closing again.

“No, Mike, don't go to sleep,” he ordered. The eyes barely opened again, but Mike was probably losing the battle. “Come on, jacket off.”

Giving him something to do, he forced himself straight to undo the buttons. Holding his left sleeve, he folded his arm and brought it out before sliding the other sleeve off his right arm. He repeated the process with his sweatshirt before getting down to a t-shirt. Once faced with the wound, he couldn't see anything beyond the small trickle of blood that was still coming out. Claire held up a large gauze roll and scissors. He nodded, then found a water bottle and passed it to her. She sniffed at it first and found out it was alcohol. Cutting off a strip, she poured some of the liquid on it, glad it was clear. _Probably vodka or tequila. Go figure, Joe._ “It's alcohol; it's going to sting,” she warned, before wiping.

Mike bucked forward and tried to move away. Ryan kept a tight grip on him and stopped him from going too far. She hurried to reduce exposure and finally got the majority of it off. The wound itself was a clean cut, but it had gone deep, and it had started bleeding more with the removal of clotted blood. She took the gauze roll and wrapped a few times, then found a tape roll and used it to make the gauze stay and put pressure to stop the bleeding.

Satisfied with Mike, he turned Claire's head so he could see the cut. “It's already stopped,” she told him. Still, he carefully wiped the blood away to make sure. Both safe and taken care of, he dialed Turner.

“Turner,” he answered.

“It's Hardy. I've got Claire Matthews and Weston. A lighthouse somewhere on the coast, abandoned,” he reported.

“And they're all right?” he questioned. Ryan heard him talking to Mitchell in the background; they were going to try and run a search first using the phone.

“Mike has a knife wound, but it's not lethal. Claire has a superficial wound by her eye.”

“And you?”

“Nothing major.”

There's a few minutes on the other side; Mitchell's telling him the results of her search. “Whatever you're on, we can't track you,” he told him.

“Well, we'll be easy to spot. The burning boathouse will do that.”

“Burning what?!”

By the time Turner got the FBI up to the area, the local police already arrived. Fire crews were going over the charred remains of the boathouse. Ryan was far away from who seemed to be the lead officer. There was an ambulance and Turner looked in to see Mike and Claire Matthews. After talking to the man, and finding out what Ryan had done, he walked over to him. “Carroll?” he asked.

“Probably dead, he was in the building when it exploded,” he said.

“We'll look for a body,” he nodded, “Head to the hospital with them. I'll be by later with a phone call for Claire.”

_Joey._ “Got it,” he agreed, “Also, Mike's missing his gun, badge and keys.” He walked over to the ambulance while Turner shouted out orders. The medic that had been sitting by the bumper got up and went to the front when he climbed in the back. Claire immediately took one of his sides, and he wrapped an arm around her. Mike was opposite of them, keeping his eyes everywhere else. Ryan pulled him over and held him in place with his other arm.

_Joe is gone._ He repeated to himself, tightening his grip on the both of them.

-

The clerk looked up at the man that walked into the motel. “Can I help you?” she asked, watching him warily.

He smiled. “I hope so. Agent Nelson, FBI,” he introduced, holding up a badge, “I need to make a few calls using your phone. Please.”

**Author's Note:**

> _I uh, couldn't resist._


End file.
